And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamours in the slipp'ry shrouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, And, in the calmest and the stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a King? then happy lowly clown, Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!
FRIENDSHIP! mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society! I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd ev'ry note; The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower Vied with his fellow-plant in luxury
Of dress. Oh! then the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste; still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed Not to return, how painful the remembrance!
THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd;
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And, swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground.
"And such," I exclaim'd, " is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.
"This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner a while ;- And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps with a smile."
Tell her that wastes her time, and me, That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be!
Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That, had'st thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retir'd, Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise, And teach the maid,
That goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.
(This last verse was added by Henry Kirke White.)
"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state! Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance! "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.
On a rock whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air ;) And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
“ Hark, how each giant oak and desert cave
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main.
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale; Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries. No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit: they linger yet, Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy
"Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room, and verge enough, The characters of hell to trace.
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